Counting the Days
by gpotter
Summary: Listen closely. This is the moment it happened. You can hear it when I stop counting the days.


**_A/N: Hello, all! This is the sequel to my story, "He Knows." You can read this first, if you'd like, but it would make loads more sense if you read the other one first. Take five seconds to review at the bottom, I really rely on those little tidbits of ego-stroking to get me through the day ;)_**

_**Yes, and listen, this is REALLY IMPORTANT:**_

_**This story is dedicated to Holly (charmingly-holly ... read her!), who taught me the art of eliciting a "Muahahahahaha" from summaries. Without her, these new versions of my stories wouldn't be half as good as they are now. So a big thanks to you, Holly! Hope you like the story!**_

_**Counting the Days**_

_By: Amanda M._

I'd like to think that she'd still be in love with me if only I had made her dance in the rain.

My Muggle alarm clock (Harry's idea, I swear) reads 3:17 AM. The rain is pouring down in sheets outside. I bet Harry and Ginny are having a right nice time of themselves. For some odd reason, my baby sister just _loves_ dragging the poor sod out into the street when it rains. She just loves _standing _there with him . . . and sometimes, she even makes him dance.

I wish I'd made Hermione dance.

Maybe she'd love me now if I had. Maybe she'd be here . . . instead of _there_. With _him._ Then again, I'd also like to think that the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks are alive and well, living happily ever after in Sweden. I think I'd place my money on the Snorkacks getting the better odds.

Her wedding gown was beautiful. I know this, because I was there.

She didn't see me. Has no idea that I stood back there, alone and empty. I watched her look at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. She was _bloody_ gorgeous.

I don't know why I do the things I do, the things that get me into situations like this one. Perhaps I really am a right git, eh? An emotionally demented moron. That's what Ginny says, at any rate. Ruddy younger sisters . . . don't know why she thinks _she_ knows everything.

I'll tell you one thing she _doesn't_ know. She doesn't know the way I felt _- feel - _about Hermione. The way I always will. I can't stand thinking about this anymore; I almost lost it at the ceremony that day. It's been three months, two weeks, five days, and fifteen hours since I last saw her. Longer than that since I last _held _her.

Ginny tells me that it's my own fault. Harry just gives me this face - this knowing, sympathetic face.

I tell Harry, and pretty much anyone who will listen, that she was just so _real_ to me. Back when we were in school, she was hurt by the fact that I didn't look at her the way I looked at girls like Lavender, or even the Patil twins. But I never found the words to tell her that I _couldn't_ look at her, or treat her, that way. Because she meant so much more to me. As I said - she was _real_. And she scared the pumpkin juice out of me.

And now . . . now I'm here, sulking about my flat day in and day out. Ginny and Harry try to get me to go out with them, even the twins have come round and attempted to lure me into the outside world with the promise of a free shot of Firewhiskey.

But I can't bring myself to leave.

Because every time I do, every time I'm sitting at some bar with Harry, and I see a woman with brown, curly hair, and eyes that turn to melted chocolate in the firelight . . . I see _her_. I see her everywhere.

And frankly, it bloody sucks.

This evening's thoughts have taken a turn for the dramatic, I know. I keep replaying the night over and over in my mind. Word for word, touch for touch . . . kiss for kiss. I'm sitting here, thinking of the stupidest things. Like the tiny scar at the corner of her eye where Pig nicked her one day. Or the thousands of different smiles she has. I swear, she's got a different one for every day of the year.

And I miss each and every one of them.

My clock now blinks to tell me that it's 3:23.

I'm probably the only one awake at this hour in the entire apartment complex. Yes, I'm finally out on my own. Hermione would be proud of me. Figured I can't skive off of Mum for the rest of my life, and when my plans fell through — well, I needed to have my own place.

So here I am, sitting on a worn, tattered brown sofa, in my very own flat above _The Leaky Cauldron_. I _must_ be the only one up — there isn't a sound to be heard for miles. The silence is so thick, and so oppressive.

That it is, it _was_ very thick and oppressive, and it _was_ a silence, until a soft tapping noise startles me from my thoughts. I have to admit, it scared me for a moment. Beyond all reason, I'm sure a Death Eater has come knocking on my door at 3:30 in the morning, just to say, "Ronald Weasley, you're a prick for assisting in the murder of The Big V. (a.k.a. Voldemort) and I think you should die."

But I know it's most likely Greta, Tom's wife. She likes to check up on me if she sees my lights on this late. So I morosely set down my bottle of Firewhiskey and amble toward the door, pasting a grateful smile on my face before opening it.

The woman standing before me is not Greta. Her name is Hermione Granger, and she is _here_. The first thing I see is the tiny bruise near her left eye. The first thing I _feel_ is relief. Comfort. And slight satisfaction. I knew that she'd come back to me. Really, I did.

"Ron." Her voice is cordial, a bit shaky. I notice that her hands are shaking and she's soaking wet from head to toe.

"Come in! What in the hell — ?"

I close the door behind her, and watch as she makes her way slowly to the couch I was just sitting on. She trails her hands nervously over the fabric before sitting down. She still hasn't quite _looked_ at me.

I am still standing in front of the closed door. I don't know what to do, what to say. Hermione's a married woman now. I'm not about to . . . well, I couldn't do that to Seamus. Or let Hermione do that to herself.

I would die before I _ever_ let anything hurt her. Which brings my attention back to the small, dark mark on her face. "Hermione . . . " I begin hesitantly.

She glances up at me, startled. Almost like she'd forgotten I was here. "Yes?"

"What happened?"

"I — " She is about to tell me, I know it. I can see it in her eyes. She's going to tell me that she still loves me. "I, um . . . well, a jinx gone wrong. Nothing to worry about."

The lie sounds almost convincing to my ears. Almost, but not quite. She's never been able to lie well. "Hermione," I repeat, firmly this time, because I want her to look at me and tell the truth.

"Ron, please. I — I just can't."

Her eyes are red already, I can see that. And her nose is slightly pink, as it always gets when she cries for too long._ Why have you been crying so much, my love? _

"Well, then at least let me get you a towel or something . . . " I trail off as I finally move away from the door and head toward the bathroom down the hall. Mine is a small flat, with a tiny living room and kitchen, one bedroom, and a bathroom. I quickly snatch one of the softer, larger towels from underneath the bathroom sink and bring it back with me, along with my bath robe.

When I get back to the living room, I notice that Hermione is no longer on the couch. I feel a brief thrill of despair before I realize that she's only moved and is standing in front of the window now, looking out at the rain.

"Here," I say hesitantly, handing both items out as she turns to glance at me.

She turns her head away, refusing to take either. "Hermione, you'll _freeze_ to death!" I sound like my mother even to my own ears.

Even though she won't answer me, I know that she's near frozen. So I tentatively take a step forward. When she doesn't blast me to Hell and back, I take another. And another, until finally, I'm close enough to wrap the towel around her shoulders and give them a rub.

She continues to shake, and I can tell that she's started crying again. Before I can question her, though, she speaks. "Oh, Ron! I'm such a bloody idiot!"

Hermione Granger, self-professed vigilante against swearing, has just said the word "bloody" and she doesn't even care. Something is _very_ wrong. "Come on, just tell me what's happened," I prod gently.

I can feel her shoulders tense the minute I speak the words. She steps away from me, then turns in my direction. Her eyes are fresh with new tears. "What's _happened_, is that I haven't married the man I love."

Her confession takes a minute to wedge itself into my brain. When it does, though, I can't say that I'm surprised. I just look at her, watching her eyes dart around my flat. Speaking of . . .

"Hermione, how did you know I lived here? I've only just moved in a few weeks ago."

"I — well, Fred told me. I like to stop by and visit with the twins when I'm doing my shopping."

She thinks she's gotten off easy with the whole remark about her marriage being loveless. "Awfully nice of you. So, not in love with old Seamus much anymore?"

She opens her mouth to say something, then shuts it without a word. It doesn't matter, I already know the answer.

"Oh, Ron. It's not — "

"I know what it's _not_, Hermione. So why don't you tell me what exactly it _is_," I tell her. I don't take my eyes off her for a minute. I'm afraid that if I do, this will all be over. I'll wake up at four in the afternoon, with a dreadful hangover and a flat mucked up with empty pizza boxes and Chinese cartons. Now that she's here, though — I can't quite say that I think I'll ever live that way again.

"He — it was never — "

I've never seen Hermione so at a loss for words. Normally, she would have rattled off to me a whole list of reasons why what she'd said was true, citing specific examples and giving me a detailed bibliography.

Now, she just stands there, with this pleading, pitiful look in her eyes. That look is _killing_ me. All I ever wanted was to protect her. I thought that by letting her go through with her marriage to Seamus, I would be. Obviously, I was mistaken.

I've suddenly found my voice again. "Don't lie to me." I'm cold, and I don't care. "Whatever you say, don't let it be a lie." Her eyes are wide, because she doesn't remember this side of me. I've only ever been in love with this woman. "He hit you." It's a statement, not a question.

She obeys what I've said to her and doesn't deny it. I can't hold it in any longer — I turn away from her before she can see the anger in my eyes, and lash out at the closest object. Which just _has_ to be the god damned wall. Certainly, what else would it possibly be?

"Fucking _hell_!" I ground out between clenched teeth. There's a hole the size of my fist in the plaster wall, and I'm going to have to repair it. Oh yeah, and it hurts. You know, a whole lot.

Hermione is silent behind me, but I know she's moved closer. I can smell the soft, subtle scent of vanilla that seems to _live_ in her pores. I close my eyes and the pain goes away. It's replaced with the warm feeling of her hand being placed on my shoulder blade.

She's touched me and my day-counting is going to have to start all over again in the morning.

I can't help but shrug away from her hand. If I let her keep doing _that_, I'm never going to let her leave. "Hermione — "

She's the old Hermione again, because I can see it in her eyes. She wants to talk now. "I came here for a reason, Ron."

Bloody hell, I can't stop the words from leaving my mouth as I turn around to look at her: "Yeah? Want to rub it in my face that you've gone off and married some abusive blo — "

I don't finish my sentence, because before I've even thought about my next choice of words, Hermione slaps me. Slaps me harder than she punched Malfoy in third year. It hurts, but not more than the look in her eyes. Not more than the pit of my stomach when I actually _hear_ the words I've said to her.

"I came here because you told me I could." Her voice sounds so small, and betrayed. Merlin, I want to die because _I_ made it that way. Suddenly, she's angry again. "You honestly think that I had no _clue_ that you came? You were there the morning of my wedding. And do you want to know something? From "We are gathered here today" to "I now pronounce you Wizard and wife" I prayed to all the Gods I knew of that you would say something! But you didn't! And still I have that damn letter, Ron. You _told_ me that I could come to you. So here I am!"

My hand is still rubbing my stinging jaw, but I can feel the anger boiling inside of me, overshadowing the other feelings. Secretly, I am overjoyed. I haven't had a knockdown, drag-out fight with Hermione in _ages_. This is normal. This is where things are _supposed_ to be. This, I can handle. "Oh, here you are, all right, _Mrs. Finnegan_. I _told_ you that you could come to me if he ever hurt you, sure. But I was sort of hoping that you would have taken that into consideration and left him _before_ the wedding! And yeah, I was there! Saw the whole bloody thing, okay?"

My heart is pounding, the blood is racing through my veins like it hasn't done for three months, two weeks, five days, and fifteen and a half hours. I can tell that it's the same for her. This is _us_. Ron and Hermione. This is what we _do_.

She is shaking harder now, probably from anger. In all honesty, I don't think I've ever seen her this angry. I'm actually frightened. And I'm _really_ scared when she turns away from me, pacing back and forth in front of the window. She stops, and I know I'm in for it.

But instead of angry words thrown at me, I get a bottle of Firewhiskey. Don't know how I haven't noticed, but she's grabbed the abandoned bottle from the coffee table. It goes sailing past my head as I duck just in the nick of time. Bloody hell, could have taken my _eye_ out . . .

What happens next is pure reflex. I would _never, ever_ raise my hand to Hermione. But I take a step forward, and my body language sure makes it seem as if I'm going to.

Her eyes squint shut, as if she's expecting it. _Expecting_ me to . . . hit her.

Now, she's back to avoiding my eyes. She won't look at me. Her head is tilted toward the floor, and I can see her bottom lip quivering. My God, what have I done? What in the _hell_ have I done?

"Hermione — " I begin, but she stops me.

"I know. Don't say anything, please. It's too . . . familiar."

Jesus _Christ_, when I get my hands on Finnegan . . .

"I won't — would never . . . look at me!" Her gaze snaps up to meet mine. I _need_ her to look at me right now. Need her to know that I'm not lying. "I wasn't going to touch you, Hermione. Not like that. I would never hurt you, love."

For the first time, I see an actual tear slip from the corner of her eye. I never understood how her tears have such power over me. When she cries, I feel like I'd bring the moon down for her if she asked me to, just to make her stop. "I know. That's what he said to me the first time." Her voice is so quiet, but the words enter me like a knife. Though, really, I've known it since the moment I opened the door.

I can't stop myself. Not when she's here, in front of me, practically begging me to just _hold_ her and tell her everything's going to be all right.

I can't stop my legs from moving until I'm pressed directly against her, my eyes flitting from her own wet brown ones, to her lips, and back again.

I can't stop my head from bending until our lips are together, and she's got her hands on my shoulders, in my hair, on my neck, and this is all happening so _quickly_ that I don't know what to do, she's _here _and _real_ and tastes _so_ _fucking good_.

Listen closely — this is the moment when it happens. You can _hear_ it when she lets herself go, lets herself believe that she's good enough again.

_You can hear it when I stop counting the days._


End file.
